In The Arms Of The Angel
by ivystansfieldbaptiste
Summary: In the arms of the angel, fly away from here from this dark cold hotel room and the endlessness you feel. BruneixOC oneshot OOC Brunei


A miracle, they said: a miracle that she survived; a miracle that she is alive. A miracle, they said over and over: a miracle that the knife just missed her carotid artery; a miracle that she made it to the hospital so quickly. A miracle they say. A miracle that her windpipe was barely intact. A miracle that her vocal chords were ripped to ribbons. A miracle that my once joyful sister is now silent and somber. A miracle that my little Sparrow is now silent.

I remember the day the accident occurred as if it happened yesterday. _ had asked if she could go to the mall with her friends. She had been out doing things with them all week, and I wanted her to spend some family time with me. However, I knew how much she wanted to go, so I let her.

She kissed me on the cheek as she skipped out the door, humming a song from a musical she had just seen. It went something like, "Five-hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred minutes~ How do you measure a year in life?" That was _: always singing and dancing and brightening everyone's day. She wanted nothing more than to be an actress; to sing and dance and entertain—to make people happy.

I really wished that she wasn't growing up as quickly as she was. She wasn't really my sister by blood. She wasn't even a country. She was just a little girl that Prussia and I found one day and took in, but I loved her more than I could say. I was as much her father as her brother. I would rather die than see her hurt.

Then, the news report came on. They spoke hurriedly of a hostage situation occurring at the local mall. My ears pricked up and I sat forward in my seat. I remember fervently hoping that _ was okay. I listened as I walked over to grab my car keys, ready to leave and find her the second the report was finished.

That was when the amateur video someone had taken on a phone came onto the screen. There was a tall, lanky man in a black ski mask, holding a knife to a girl's throat, demanding money from all the shop owners. My heart stopped. There, on the video, was the blurry image of my little sister held at knifepoint.

The speedometer did not leave 60m/h once during the entire car ride. I had to save my little sister! I had to protect her! I had to keep her safe! I ran up to the police tape, pushing and shoving any and all that stood in my way. I vaguely remembered tears streaming from my eyes as I rushed ahead, desperate to get my little _ out of harm's way.

I remember the policemen, trying to keep me behind the tape, telling me to let them do their job.

"You don't understand! My little sister's in there! She's the hostage!" I yelled as they tried to pull me back behind the line. "I have to help her! Please!"

There was a scream, a gunshot, a clamor. There were the both the man with the knife and _ being taken on stretchers into the waiting ambulances. I ran with all my strength to be with her, to at least see her. Her whole front was covered in blood, seeping into her clothing and her hair, dyeing her a too-vibrant red. The paramedics swarmed around her like vultures, hooking her up to machines and rushing her into the white and red vehicle. I ran back to my car. I grabbed my cell phone and carefully dialed Gilbert's number. My hands shook as the phone rang quietly, almost calmly, mocking the horror and fear that coiled in my stomach.

"Hallo? West, what is it?" Gilbert asked.

"It's _, she's been taken to the hospital." My voice wavered as I spoke the words no brother ever wishes to speak. "She's been stabbed in the throat."

Gilbert was silent for a few seconds. His voice was the deathly-calm voice that a commander uses when faced with a losing battle, "We'll go take care of her. I'll meet you at the hospital."

That was what they kept saying. It was a miracle. No one ever told me miracles came at a price though. I don't mean to seem ungrateful for her survival—anything short of it would have made me go mad with grief—but I feel almost like I'd been cheated by fate, or rather, that _ had been.

I looked at this prone form, so tiny and frail, clothed in the pale-blue-patterned hospital frock, throat swathed in bandages and prickling with tubes and machines, breathing slowly, moving the blankets covering her up and down, up and down, it seems like a shadow of the bright-faced little bird who just a week before was singing and dancing across the house.

The doctors said that if she had to be hit in the throat by a knife, that this was the best option: no major blood loss, no paralysis, no extreme muscle damage, it was the best possible place. But they didn't know _ though, how her face glowed when she sang, how her eyes focused completely on yours when she spoke, how she just wanted to make others happy with what she said. There was a reason Prussia and I had nicknamed her our Sparrow. She did nothing but brighten our lives with her delicate yet heartfelt mannerisms, singing and laughing and just being her sweet self. How could it be the best option that her beautiful voice had to be silenced for her to live?

The doctors said that her voice could return-that they could perform a surgery after she healed a little more that could reposition her vocal chords and repair her ability to speak. However, there was no guarantee that the quality or tone of her voice could be repaired. If the ability to speak was restored to her, it may not even be her own voice she would use.

I reached out and held her little hand in mine. She had always been so small. My hand enveloped hers; it was warm from lying by her still body. The doctors had put _ into an induced coma to help her heal. They predicted that she would be well enough to wake up soon. Her brain waves had been steadily increasing and she was breathing on her own through her tracheotomy tube.

I couldn't help but regret my actions that day. Why hadn't I insisted that she spend some more time with Prussia and me? Why hadn't I been more insistent that I wanted to spend time with her? She might have been mad, but she wouldn't be lying inert on a hospital bed.

As I held her hand, I felt it flex ever so slightly, like a cat stretching as it awoke from a nap. Her eyes fluttered open lazily, her (h/c) lashes catching the light streaming in from the window.

I was so relieved to see her awake. My whole chest felt warm as she faced her pretty (e/c) eyes at me. I felt my lips curl into a quiet smile. I saw _'s eyes glitter dully in recognition.

"Guten morgen, sleepyhead," I whispered to her.

She tweaked her mouth into a slight smile. She moved her mouth, as though trying to speak; every movement of her lips was slow and deliberate. She looked confused when all that came out was a small hiss of air and the wet click of her tongue against her teeth. But it was a tired sort of confused-the sort one gets in a dream that is neither frightening nor significant enough to question.

She simply squeezed my hand as if to say, "I'm glad to see you."

Gilbert walked in at that moment. He almost dropped the vase of daisies and black-eyed-Susans that he had brought for _. He quickly set them down on the table near her bed and sat down next to me. He was almost crying from joy.

"Good to see you again, kiddo," he whispered to _.

_'s eyes grew a little brighter as she saw Gilbert's face join mine. Her smile was less bleary and more alert. I distinctly saw her try to say, "Hey, guys," only to have nothing but a slight hiss of air escape her heavy lips. Her still-glazed eyes grew more intense, with groggy confusion.

Gilbert reached his hand out to pet _'s cheek, "Hey, don't worry, Sparrow. You've been asleep for quite a while now." his thumb stroked the baby-soft hairs near her ear, reassuring her as best as he could, "We've missed you."

_ smiled another bleary smile, still too tired to really question why she could not speak. She moved her hand slowly, turning her palm up towards us and bringing it outward. I recognized the gesture; it was a weak invitation for an embrace. I leaned down and, careful to avoid the tubes and wires near her neck, I wrapped my arms around her fragile frame. Her little arms wrapped weakly around my shoulders as she held me close.

Gilbert took his turn after me. The tears that had sprung to his eyes when he first saw _ awake now escaped his eyes and plowed down his cheeks in small, salty rivers. He embraced _ as though he never wanted to let her go. I could see his shoulders spasm slightly, as though he were suppressing sobs.

At that moment, a nurse came in. She was excited to see that our sister was awake and some-what alert. She asked her a few questions, like her birthday and her name, and began to assess how she was doing.

After the nurse, a doctor followed. By now, _ was almost completely awake, but she had a layer of lethargy that refused to be shaken off. It reminded me of the laziness that came over her every Saturday morning and would leave no earlier than one o'clock in the afternoon. It was a bittersweet analogy. So much had changed since then.

Once again, she tried to open her mouth to speak. This time, she looked out-and-out terrified that no distinguishable noise was coming out. Her hand instinctively went to her throat, which paused over the many instruments hooked up to it. Her face paled. Her pleading (e/c) eyes quivered with fear, as if to say, "No, no, don't let it be true…"

The doctor's eyes went down to the ground for a second as he cleared his throat. He readjusted his horn-rimmed glasses as he shifted almost uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Miss Beilschmidt," he began somberly, but with the slightest hint of pity: typical doctor-is-giving-bad-news-voice. "When you were stabbed at the mall, the knife entered your throat, slashed part of your windpipe as well as most of your larynx. Without surgery to reset the vocal muscles, your wounds won't heal in a way that will allow you to speak again."

_'s face was a mask of disbelief. She moved her head slowly side-to-side. Her eyes seemed to brighten and grow more luminous as tears pooled within them. Her lower lip began to quiver, and the mask broke. If she could make any noise, she would have been sobbing uncontrollably. There was only silence now.

She held her face in her hands, her narrow shoulders heaving with sorrow. I reached out my arms and brought her to my heart. At first, _ did not move. She continued to cry as she was: face in hands, bowed and defeated. Eventually, she leaned her face into my shirt and wrapped her arms around my waist. My chest grew damp with her tears. She held onto me helplessly, dejectedly, without any hope.

The rise and fall of her shoulders eventually slowed, and she weakly pulled away from me to face the doctor. His composure fell for a second. The look of unmitigated sorrow and loss on her face could have made stones weep.

"When you are discharged," he began again, his face a sympathetic yet controlled mask once more, "you can make the decision of whether you want the surgery or not. Until then, rest and heal up." He walked out of the room with a quickness of step that betrayed his discomfort.

_'s fawn-like eyes, still stained red from crying, met mine. She looked at me, helpless as an infant, pleading for guidance. It was the same look I saw in her eyes when she was alone and abandoned, that first time I saw her.

"Don't worry, _," I held her hand, hoping to encourage her to be brave. "We will help you through this I promise."

She reached out her arms and hugged both her big brothers. We would get through this, as a family, somehow.


End file.
